


Proof through the night

by LiveOakWithMoss



Series: Punching out my dancelines [8]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, DWMP verse, Fourth of July, Gen, Light Russingon, M/M, Maglor's bandana's origin story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-21 14:04:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7390165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fireworks and Fëanorions, what could go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proof through the night

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. A rambling DWMP Independence Day explosion, circa 2008 or so. (For reference: Fingon has just finished his first year of college, Finrod and Turgon are about to start.) Not everyone is mentioned, because I’m too overheated to juggle that many characters.
> 
> Happy Fourth!

Aredhel put her hands on her hips and surveyed the pile.

It was a lot of fireworks.

“I don’t think,” said Fingon, who had a red scarf knotted around his hair and was looking a bit like Jimi Hendrix, “that there is a single firework left in the state of New Hampshire.”

“I don’t think,” said Turgon, who was doing inventory, “that inviting the Fëanorions was a good idea.”

“When is it ever?”

Aredhel put out a foot and tripped Argon before he could sneak a Roman Candle into his back pocket. He made a face at her and she made a face back as Finrod came out of the house, loaded down with a large picnic basket and several blankets.

“Our parents called; they’ll meet us after the parade,” said Finrod, dropping the basket into the back of Fingon’s old pickup truck. “And your father said something about how if we didn’t want to do the whole extended family thing, we didn’t have to.”

“Wazzat mean?” said Argon, looking up at Finrod, who was wearing his brand new Beleriand U. sweater despite the July heat.

“It means Dad would be happier if we spent the day out of range of explosives and Fëanorions,” said Aredhel, and as if on cue, an old mini van turned the corner and pulled up in front of the house.

Fingon jumped to his feet, grinning broadly as a tall, red-haired figure got out from the driver’s side.

“Boom,” murmured Aredhel. “Too late.”

-

Aredhel held a hotdog in one hand and spun an unlit sparkler in the other.

Celegorm, who had come back from a week of football camp with his hair cut so short that he looked like he was about to ship off to military school – Fëanor’s latest threat, in fact – came up behind her and nudged her in the ribs. “What?”

“What what?” said Aredhel vaguely. She was watching Maedhros, who was sitting on the grass next to Fingon, and who had just reached up to brush a lock of hair out of Fingon’s eyes.

“You’re lookin’ all weird.”

“I don’t trust him,” said Aredhel without thinking, and Celegorm, following her gaze, narrowed his eyes.

“Who, Nelyo?” His tone was suddenly aggressive. Celegorm would complain endlessly about his brothers and then go off like a bomb if anyone cast aspersions on them. “What’s your problem with ‘im?”

Aredhel, who never cared if she made Celegorm mad or not, didn’t answer right away. She didn’t know how to articulate the unease she felt as she watched Maedhros and her brother, but it came from the way Maedhros’ smile would slip as soon as Fingon looked away, to be replaced by something almost tormented. No one, Aredhel knew, should feel torment over Fingon. Loving Fingon should be easy, as easy as it was for Fingon to turn himself inside out for their handsome, enigmatic half-cousin. It was not right, Aredhel told herself, that Maedhros not be able to love Fingon with the same kind of easy adoration that Fingon loved Maedhros. If Maedhros couldn’t pull this off, he didn’t deserve the way Fingon was currently squeezing his hand and smiling into his eyes.

“He’s too tall,” she said instead, because this was also true, and Celegorm rolled his eyes.

“You’re such a shallow b.” He reached out and gave her a noogie, ruffling up her hair, and she sprang on him. She knew she was getting far too old to wrestle with boys – embarrassing things sometimes happened now – but old habits died hard.

- 

Finrod wandered over to the tall figure dressed all in black, his hair hanging in his eyes, who was hunched over a book on the steps as the others set up fireworks in the street.

“Hello,” Finrod said cheerfully. “Reading anything interesting?”

Caranthir looked up through the dark bangs that hung into his face and squinted suspiciously. “No.”

“Really?”

“No.”

Finrod blinked, trying to figure out the logical conversational progression from here. “Um…”

Caranthir stared at him another couple moments. Then, “ _Anarchist Cookbook_ ,” he muttered, and dropped his head again.

“Oh! Neat,” said Finrod brightly, and Caranthir looked even more deeply suspicious.

“Nationalistic celebrations are crass,” he said, experimentally, and Finrod nodded.

“I’ve always found it difficult to reconcile my discomfort with the inherent excessive jingoism of this holiday with the urge to celebrate the few things we might still take pride in without feeling like it is a celebration of hypocrisy – but perhaps that conflict is one of the purest expressions of what it means to be an American, you know?”

Caranthir stared. “Who _are_ you?”

“Your cousin,” said Finrod cheerfully. “Want a hot dog?”

-

Maglor was having an existential crisis to anyone who would listen, which in this case consisted of Maedhros and Fingon, who were sitting with him in the back of the van as they waited for the sun to set.

“You perform live all the time,” Maedhros said patiently, as Maglor lay across the back seat with an arm over his eyes. “You never get nerves this bad when you do shows, and this is just one song.”

“I never have an audience this big at Cuiviénen’s open mic night,” said Maglor, from beneath his elbow.

Fingon, who was tucked under Maedhros' arm and couldn’t seem to stop grinning, said encouragingly, “This could be your big break then! They only ask the best to sing the national anthem, right? At the Super Bowl and baseball games and whatever.”

“They only asked me to sing because Daeron is in Maine this weekend. And it is famously one of the easiest songs to mess up,” said Maglor morosely. “So watch me take my ‘big break’ and shame country and family and then I shall have to impale myself on a sparkler to preserve my honor.”

“God, Káno,” said Maedhros. “Take it down a notch with the ritual suicide talk, won’t you? Are you drunk?”

“Hey,” said Fingon, “there’s an idea.”

-

An hour passed. The sun set. Crowds gathered at the park. When the dark headed figure took the stage, he had a red scarf knotted around his hair.

“He wears it well, doesn’t he?” said Fingon, watching Maglor grasp the mic stand like it was a long-lost lover.

“Not as well as you do,” said Maedhros, shooting a glance around to make sure no one he knew was watching, and then wrapping his arms around Fingon from behind and resting his chin on his shoulder. “Let’s just hope he’s not too drunk to sing.”

Several picnic blankets up in the crowd, Fingolfin looked sideways at his half-brother, whose blanket had ended up next to his. “Your son has a nice voice.”

Fëanor had piled several coolers between them to clearly demarcate where his territory began and Fingolfin’s ended. “I know.”

“Imagine how he’d sound if he was sober.”

“Laugh it up, Fingolfin,” said Fëanor, not looking at him, “Embarrassment is as embarrassment does. I saw your eldest with a red, white, and blue prophylactic tucked behind his ear earlier. Though I suppose there’s some comfort in thinking he won’t be impregnating anyone tonight.”

Fingolfin looked like he was about to point something out, thought better of it, and fell silent. 

-

The after images from the fireworks display faded. The crowds began to disperse. The van rumbled back to a certain cul-de-sac.

“It was a good performance,” said Finrod, patting Maglor’s shoulder as they sat him down on the sidewalk.

“Yes,” said Turgon. “I’ve never heard the national anthem last that long before. Or have that many encores.”

Maglor grinned blearily and slipped off the curb. They propped him back up.

Out in the street, Celegorm and Aredhel were arranging fireworks and struggling with the fuse.

“It’s the wind,” Celegorm was saying in an aggrieved voice while Aredhel swore under her breath and dropped another match as it burned down to her fingers.

“Incompetents.” A short, slim figure emerged from where he’d been seeking refuge in the house, taking everyone by surprise. “You have the whole thing set up backwards.”

Curufin made his way to where the fireworks were being balanced on a piece of plywood, and bent down over them.

“Are we really going to let a twelve year old – ” Aredhel began, but Celegorm held her back.

“Shh.”

Muttering to himself, Curufin rolled up his sleeves and pulled out a pocketknife, setting to work trimming wicks.

“Hey, Curvo, think we could also modify ‘em slightly to get a more impressive explosion?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you said he hated fireworks,” whispered Finrod, who was watching. “Because of the noise?”

“He does,” said Maedhros, as Fingon slipped a hand into his back pocket, “but he hates people doing things wrong more.”

Curufin cracked his knuckles as Caranthir joined them, _The_ _Anarchist Cookbook_ tucked under his arm. “How big do we want them?”

“Guys,” said Maedhros, as his brothers clustered around the fireworks, “I’d like it to be noted that I am not participating.”

“Spectating is tacit approval,” said Celegorm, as Maedhros very pointedly stood back.  “Káno, be ready to launch into an encore of the rockets’ red glare, yeah?”

 -

Several blocks away, Anairë looked up from the cooler she was wheeling as a massive display lit the sky, along with a series of loud bangs. “Didn’t the official show end an hour ago?”

“Isn’t that your neighborhood?” said Finarfin.

“I told you,” said Fingolfin, who was already dialing the fire department, “I _told you_ that we shouldn’t have left them alone with the Fëanorions.” 


End file.
